


all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

by lesbianryuko (ashisverymuchonfire)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loneliness, M/M, Not Really Character Death, Possible Character Death, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - Here Lies the Abyss, The Fade, hawke was left in the fade what can i say
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 01:08:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16985244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashisverymuchonfire/pseuds/lesbianryuko
Summary: Fenris is hunting down slavers when he finds out that the only person he loves is gone.





	all the smiles that are ever gonna haunt me

**Author's Note:**

> SUP it's a little thing for fenris appreciation month day 13: alone !! in which i write fenris's reaction to getting The Letter from varric about hawke which im sure has been done a thousand times already but it was what i thought of when i saw the prompt and also i love to suffer
> 
> the title is from the ghost of you by my chemical romance bc it came on while i was writing this and it was just Too fitting

Fenris reads the letter at least four times before the news sinks in.

It’s been years since Hawke started teaching him how to read, but he still doubts himself, making excuses—maybe he’s just misreading it or mixing up letters. He traces his finger over the words, sounding them out even though he knows damn well what they say by now. He tries to read it out loud to see if it makes more sense that way, to see if perhaps doing so will reveal his mistake—but there is no mistake to reveal, and the message is still the same. His throat goes dry when he speaks the word _Hawke_ , and it’s completely closed shut by the time the word _gone_ has reached his tongue.

Varric wouldn’t joke about something like this.

Fenris kneels down on the floor of the cheap, dirty inn he’s been staying at, still clutching the letter in his shaking hands. Without thinking, he crumples it up and tosses it across the room, as if by not looking at the news he can pretend it isn’t real. His head is a mess of fragmented thoughts— _No. Hawke. Gone. Probably dead. Can’t be happening. No. Not real. Can’t be. No. Not coming back. Never coming back. No. No…_

His fingers barely cooperating, Fenris manages to untie the red favor from around his wrist, and he grips it with both hands as if it’s his lifeline. His chest feels like it’s caving in, and with every breath he takes, his lungs rattle more and more. He closes his eyes in an effort to shut it all out, but it does nothing to stop the influx of memories—visions of Hawke’s eyes, his smile, his laugh, his kiss, his touch. Holding the favor against his chest, Fenris leans forward so that his forehead almost touches the floor, doubled over in an agony greater than any physical pain he’s ever experienced.

He tries so hard to hold it in—to keep his mouth and eyes firmly shut, to breathe in and out slowly through his nose, to retain even a sliver of control over himself. But it’s no use; his breath hitches involuntarily, and from there, it’s all over.

When he opens his mouth, his voice barely sounds like his own, unleashing a wretched croaking sound that lies somewhere between a sob and a scream. “ _Hawke_ ,” he gasps, as if he can bring his lover back simply by saying his name. But there is no strong hand to touch his shoulder, no warm honeycomb voice to tell him it’s all a dream. By the time the first few tears have finally slipped past his closed eyelids and down to the tip of his nose, he’s given up on stopping them.

It seems so cruel, for him to lose the only person he can remember ever truly loving, as if he hasn’t lost enough already—his memories, his family, even his enemies. In this moment, crumpled on the floor and wracked by grief, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt more alone...and this time, there is no one to step forward and say, _I’m here, Fenris._

He doesn’t know how long he stays like that, hugging Hawke’s favor to his chest and letting the sounds of his anger and anguish fill the dingy room. All he knows is that when his body has tired of his sorrow and he rises to his feet, it’s darker outside, which means he has a job to do—a job hunting slavers.

Tying Hawke’s favor back onto his wrist and tugging it securely into place, Fenris takes a few long, deep breaths to compose himself, at least on the outside. For some reason, the thought of killing Tevinters is almost comforting, enough that it staves off his loss-fueled rage, if only temporarily. If he’s going to let it out, it won’t be by punching the wall of an inn; it’ll be by hunting down those who have no problem preying on innocents. It’s what he and Hawke have been doing since Kirkwall...and it’s what Hawke would have wanted.

Fenris hates himself for thinking about Hawke as if he’s already dead.

When he leaves the room, a few strangers give him odd looks, and he’s not sure if it’s because of the usual reasons or because he looks like a hot mess (or perhaps both). He can’t bring himself to care, though—not about his bloodshot eyes and not about his flushed, tear-stained cheeks. Tonight there will be slavers about, searching for refugees to capture and sell, but the only thing they’ll find is an early grave at the hands of a near-vengeful elf—he swears it.

—

Fenris stays out until the sun starts to peer over the horizon, killing more slavers in one night than he ever has before. He looks their leaders right in the eye before he crushes their hearts so that the last thing they ever see is the pain and horror and fury in the face of a former slave. Every blow, every kill, is for Hawke—a physical manifestation of his grief, an agony that spurs him forward no matter how much it hurts.

He’s covered in blood by the time he returns to the inn, but it’s early in the morning, so nobody really notices or cares. As soon as he’s back in his room, he sheds most of his armor and falls into the uncomfortable bed, hoping and praying for a dreamless sleep—free from the anger, free from the pain, free from the loss.

He’s awoken what feels like only minutes later by a quiet but incessant knocking at the door. Fenris keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t move, but the knocking only grows louder. Then he hears it: a familiar, lilting voice with a distinctive accent. “Fenris! Are you in there?”

_Merrill._

He hasn’t seen Merrill in years. How did she even find him? What could she possibly want?

As if reading his mind, Merrill adds, “Fenris! I need to tell you something!”

Fenris buries his head in his pillow. He can already take a wild guess at what she wants to tell him, though he doesn’t understand why she felt the need to do it in person. Unfortunately for her, Varric’s letter reached him first, and he has no interest in _bonding_ with her over it.

Merrill is not one to give up, though, and continues knocking persistently. “It’s about Hawke!” she says. “There might be a way we can still save him!”

At that, Fenris’s eyes shoot open. Merrill is many things, but a liar is not one of them.

Fenris pushes himself out of bed and rushes to the door. Swinging it open, he says, “What are you talking about?”

For a moment, Fenris takes her in, and she seems to do the same to him. Her hair is different than it was when he last saw her—now it’s shaved on one side, but long on the other. Her face seems to have hardened, a result of seeing much more of the world, but she still has the same deceptive doe eyes. “Oh. You cut your hair,” she comments. “It looks nice.”

“What does that matter?” Fenris snaps, exacerbated. He gestures for her to enter the room; if they’re going to be talking about matters of the Fade and getting Hawke out of it, they should probably do it in secrecy.

Merrill steps gingerly inside, closing the door behind her. She takes in his blood-covered greatsword and armor, the letter still crumpled on the ground, and the injuries on his body from the night before. “When did you get Varric’s letter?” she asks. “I got mine a few weeks ago.”

Fenris raises an eyebrow. “Just yesterday.”

“I figured as much,” Merrill says. “Varric said the news might take longer to reach you because he didn’t know where exactly you were. It took some time for me to track you down. But I knew I had to find you.”

“Why?” Fenris says. “What’s this about being able to save Hawke?”

“Right. Well,” Merrill says, sitting down on Fenris’s messy bed, “do you remember the Eluvian?”

“The mirror that led you to blood magic? Yes, I remember it,” Fenris says, his eyes narrowed. He’s almost afraid to ask what a demonic mirror has to do with saving Hawke.

“I’ve been doing some research,” Merrill explains. “It seems these Eluvians are meant to be portals to another realm—beyond our realm, beyond even the Fade, but close to it. I think...I think there may be a way to travel to the Fade through an Eluvian.” Her eyes are wide with hope, pleading. “If we go to Skyhold, we may be able to figure something out. It would probably take a lot of power. A lot of magic. Possibly even blood magic. I don’t know. But if we have any hope of finding Hawke alive and bringing him back…”

Fenris holds a hand up to stop her. He’s heard enough, and for once, he agrees with her: if there is any chance of saving his lover, he’ll do whatever it takes.

“Alright,” he says with a nod. “To Skyhold.” _To Hawke._


End file.
